Wastrel Brother
"So, the enemies are camped just five miles out, and the great warrior insists on throwing all the men into plowing fields?"
"Got a problem with that?"
"No, no. None at all. Why would there be? A few days from now, us men'll have our guts spilling out and our heads chopped off, the women get raped, and years later, kids who don't even know their dads will grow up as orphans."
Bill sneered.
"If you've got complaints, quit flapping your gums and prove it with your sword. Ingeris told me the thing dangling between your legs is so small you fell asleep mid-thrust. It even still attached or what?"
"Fuck, why the hell are you bringing that up now? You oversized barbarian's got a filthy interest in other men's bedroom business?"
"Can't help what I hear."
Bessimer scratched his ear with his middle finger on his right hand. His ring and pinky fingers were lost in the fight with the hell wolves. His clothes were mud-caked rags barely covering his privates—he'd shattered over a dozen shovels in the last few months, single-mindedly plowing the earth.
"Both of you, knock it off."
Carlson, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke up.
"The messenger only brought a declaration of war. No ultimatum yet, so we've still got time."
"We ain't got time. Carlson, with just you and me, we could sweep those ragtag bastards out there. Besides, you think big bro's gonna leave Binvelt alone? Little bro's definitely bringing reinforcements."
Big bro meant Count Goethe. Little bro was Isaac.
Bessimer saw the situation optimistically.
"I'm ready to fight anytime. But seeding can't wait any longer. Winter's coming. Once the smiths finish those big plows, we'll really tear up the soil. Need wolves for that, but people too."
Bessimer scratched at the spot where his fingers had been torn off. The stump was stitched and healed, but it still itched like they were there. To him, though, that itch wasn't despair or loss—it was glory, a hunger for battle. But right now, the hope Isaac had planted in him burned brighter: turning Binvelt's frozen wasteland into fields, into a place worth living.
Binvelt—I'm counting on you.
Bessimer recalled the wolf king's voice. Hallucination or reality? The weight of that thick hand on his head—he'd never forget it.
"What if war breaks out before reinforcements arrive? How the fuck are we supposed to hold? The great warrior of Baitur's out there plowing fields—what good's training gonna do? The other soldiers aren't even tense."
Bill grumbled, shooting Carlson a look that begged him to do something.
"Keep yapping and spar with me. Your brain's clogged with numbers. I'll axe a hole in your skull to let some air in."
"Am I crazy? If I'm fighting you, boss, I'd rather take on those hell wolf monsters."
Bill flinched but still pushed back at Bessimer.
"Oh, that'd be a hell of a show."
Bessimer laughed.
"Listen, Carlson. Gunther said we gotta seed before late autumn's done. That way the crops survive winter and we harvest next spring. For any real yield, everyone—residents, soldiers—has to pitch in."
"I said it already: young master's orders were to prepare for war. Enemy numbers are over three hundred, even lowballing it. Women and kids help with defenses and supplies; the rest train."
"Carlson!"
"I'm just following orders. Plowing can wait till after the war. Seeding now won't give us food through this winter anyway."
"Good thing you're here, sir. I was thinking of deserting—this looked hopeless."
Bill sighed in relief at Carlson's words.
"Please do desert. Day you're caught, I'll chop you up myself and feed you to the wolves."
Bessimer stood.
"Meeting ain't over—where you going?"
"To Ingeris. Got some fun stuff to try today. Bill, she's a good woman."
"Fuck. You ain't, right?"
Bill cursed reflexively at Bessimer's wicked grin.
When Bill first came to Binvelt on Isaac's orders, the tribal woman Ingeris had eyed him curiously with his city polish. But after a few romps, she'd wilted and now avoided him.
"Who knows. Rough place like this needs a strong man."
"Let's both die, you fucker."
Bill shot up—though his head barely reached Bessimer's chest.
"You'll die first."
Bessimer smirked derisively.
"No pointless infighting among the brass."
Carlson warned.
"It's fun, though."
Bessimer chuckled. Bill's face flushed purple. Carlson shook his head. Once again, he felt it: he was a shadow trailing behind, not a leader up front. Of the three in this command tent, he probably wanted Isaac back in Binvelt the most.
"Bessimer. Give a conclusion before you go."
"You two decide. I'll do what I want."
With that, Bessimer left the command tent.
"Can't you do something about that lunatic?"
"Bessimer's not the type you tame. Born that way. That's him compromising plenty."
"Hard to believe a wild boar like that grovels to young master calling him 'big bro.' But he'll come, right?"
"What?"
"Reinforcements. No way the count abandons his son."
Bill laughed at his own absurdity. At least in the manor, the count had high prestige. He doted on his kids and treated servants better than most nobles—efforts to cure Isaac's unique constitution these past years, decent pay and vacations despite tight finances. No way he'd abandon his son or Binvelt, his fief. That was Bill's thinking.
"Outside's getting rowdy."
"Huh?"
Carlson, with sharp ears, stood first. Bill caught on late.
"Big bro!"
Bessimer's booming voice.
Binvelt's camp hadn't changed much since Isaac left—just a new command tent. Inside, thick leather and cloth blocked the wind; an iron brazier gave soft light and warmth. Center: oak table, wooden chairs, bear pelt only on Isaac's seat.
"Reinforcements? Ain't none."
"What about the soldiers with you?"
"Picked 'em up on the road. They ain't fighting."
Isaac briefly explained events at Goethe.
"Ah, so we're fucked?"
Bill's color drained as he listened.
"Young master—no, Baron now? Anyway. Can I desert?"
"Sure. Leave your head."
"Fuck."
Bill smacked his own head.
"What're you doing?"
"Can't hit young master's head. 'Killed the viscount's servant 'cause I was pissed'?"
"Yeah."
Isaac skipped the spirit king's rampage and Botmer plots. Just that he'd executed Botmer's servant solo, earning the declaration of war. No need for them to know more.
"Past's past—can't change it. Let's talk future."
Isaac said flatly.
"Future? What future? Discuss dying together?"
"Sounds good."
Bessimer grinned wide; Carlson nodded. No one minded Bill's reaction.
"Good? You all lost your minds? Carlson sir, talk some sense into him!"
Bill clutched his hair. Was he the only one grasping how serious this was? They'd all die at this rate.
"Just listen."
Carlson said expressionlessly.
"Ha."
Bill deflated. Even Carlson?
"Big bro, I gotta plow first—what d'ya think?"
"Plow?"
"Forges are mostly done. Iron comes, smiths make plows—easy, right?"
Bessimer's voice was childlike for his bulk.
"Right. Potatoes before autumn ends, yeah?"
"Not just potatoes. Any winter crop works. Winter wheat, improved wheat, winter barley, rye, turnips, oats too."
"Studied up, huh?"
"Heh, plenty slash-and-burn folk among the Black Forest refugees. Picked it up. They brought seeds too."
"Perfect. Tell the smiths to fire up the bellows when iron arrives."
"Spot on."
Bessimer beamed. Perfect my ass, you madman, Bill wanted to scream, clamping his mouth.
Without the magic contract giving Isaac his life, Bill would've fled by now.
"Gonna be busy. More blue flowers out there than before. Use 'em all as green manure, plow, seed—whole village and tribes gotta jump in."
Bang— Bill slammed the table, bolting up. Eyes turned to him.
"There's a fucking army of hundreds right outside!"
Bloodshot eyes, bulging neck veins. But no one flinched or stirred—just eerily calm stares.
Then Bill realized: to them, a few hundred enemies meant nothing from the start. Idiots? Monsters? A chill ran down his spine. Especially Isaac's blue eyes—his blood ran cold.
"So, Bill. What's your plan?"
Facing those eyes again, Bill remembered what Isaac was. Raided a gang to save maids, pierced boss Nier's head in one go. Didn't matter if it was Bernsi's market lord blocking him. Used Baisman and Bill as bait to wipe a great house's remnants—over a hundred dead.
"Ah."
Bill shuddered, sighing, eyes dropping. Instinct had screamed it: Isaac wasn't a boy, a noble young master, or a mage. Something entirely new in Bill's life. Bessimer and Carlson knew it well.
Bill, you idiot Bill. What he should fear wasn't hundreds of enemies—it was the man before him.
"T-Train everyone who can hold a weapon with the soldiers. Old folks, women, kids handle defenses and supplies."
His voice shrank. Obvious stuff.
"That win it?"
Isaac asked.
"……."
Bill couldn't say yes.
"Carlson."
"Yes."
"Who's their commander?"
"Botmer's second son, Rutger Joachim von Botmer."
"Tell him lunch."
"Where?"
"Neutral spot between us."
"Botmers ain't big on honor."
Carlson meant traps.
"Me neither. Forgot? I'm the wastrel."
"……Yes."
Carlson stared, then stood.
"Did I say something weird?"
"……."
Bill was speechless; Bessimer burst laughing late.
"Wastrel big bro, drink to celebrate your return?"